Take Me Home
by shyath
Summary: Femslash. Ginny/Pansy. People suffer differently during the War. They certainly cope differently.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. Seriously.

**A/N:** Written for the community at femmefest.

**A/N2:** Review please, as always. Now that you know who's written what, it'll be nice to hear whether you've figured out it was me writing or not and whatever else.

* * *

It was a few months into the War before they finally admitted that they had begun to crack (to break).

Oh, some realised a lot earlier than that. But some things were better left unsaid. The adults had watched grimly, their time had yet to come. Or maybe, theirs had already passed, and out of some misguided conception of compassion, they had turned a blind eye to the distractions the younger wizards and witches endeavoured to keep occupied with. At least they were not so debilitated that they failed to turn up for battles, Lupin had joked lamely. No one had even tried to offer a chuckle in response.

But even with the leeway granted to them, some things were stretched so far beyond the boundaries of propriety that even Ron, the most debauched of all by then, felt it was his 'brotherly duty' to speak up. Ginny knew that everyone was aware of what went on behind closed doors. There were enough gaps and cracks in the groaning monstrosity they had adopted as their hideout that there was never enough enchantment to be cast to keep prying eyes and eager ears away from things that 'should be done in secret'.

The sighs. The moans. The scent of tobacco that hung about her in the strangest of places. She felt as if she carried a brand about her person (and for that, she was equally proud and ashamed). For wizards and witches who had spent most of their formative years sneaking about, all of them were terrible at keeping their curiosity discreet.

What was the big deal anyway? Everyone was indulging in one sort of evil or another. As far as Ginny was concerned, what she was doing (immersed in) was definitely not any worse than anything else they were doing. A lot healthier anyway. Besides, Hermione and Fleur were doing basically the same thing. She had seen them before (when she sneaked out of the room she shared with Hermione and Hermione was just sneaking back in) - the secret touches, the knowing smiles. She knew all the signs, and by Hermione's commiserating look, she knew that Hermione knew she knew. Fleur was Bill's widow. Should that not put the two of them on the same footing with Pansy and her? Should that not warrant the same treatment? It was not as if either of them were lepers or some sort of stigmatised personage. If anything, for reneging on Voldemort, Pansy should be treated as if she were a hero. For people claiming to be all about fairness, her supposed friends were surprisingly bigoted.

Ginny picked her way quickly but carefully through the dilapidated ground floor, up the rickety staircase, and down the creaking corridor to stop in front of a yawning hole where the door to the room beyond had once been. The wind was blowing inward tonight and wafted tendrils of grey smoke into the house, helping her somewhat in locating Pansy (though she would never really need aid in that). The faint glow at the end of the cigarette lit up the brunette's face for a split second before she turned to regard Ginny.

"Come here," she rasped, snuffing out the cigarette on one of the soles of the practical boots she had taken to wearing.

Ginny stepped forward eagerly, taking the hand Pansy extended and (automatically) entwining their fingers together. _She's alive_. The pang of relief that came with that simple contact was enough to knock the breath clean out of Ginny. "You're hurt," she said softly, moving her free hand to caress around the long but thin cut on Pansy's shoulder. "That'll leave a scar if you don't get it treated immediately."

"Leave it be," Pansy responded gruffly, pulling Ginny into the circle of her own arms.

Ginny understood what was not said. _It'll just be another scar on me_. She did not say anything but brought her two arms together to wrap around Pansy's neck. She stepped deeper into the hold (into Pansy) and buried her face into the crook of Pansy's shoulder. _She's alive_. It was a ritual they had established. Returning from the battles they had begun to trudge into and out of almost by rote, when the images were still fresh behind their eyelids, when the wounds still bled - you really began to feel like you were just as dead as the bodies you left behind. "I'm here," she whispered, choking on her own tears. After all these months, she had thought she had run out of tears to be shed. Apparently she was sorely mistaken.

"Yeah," Pansy agreed, "yeah." Her nails dug into Ginny's back. Whether she noticed or not was besides the point. In a world that felt like everything was beyond your control, to have control over what (or who) to hurt or to please - there was a certain security in that. As long as it was self-inflicted, whether it be pain or pleasure, there was a silver lining to be seen as far as they were concerned. "Take me to bed," she whispered after a while.

Ginny pulled back slightly. Pansy reeked of sweat, blood and that sweet, sweet scent of death - but oh Merlin, she was the most beautiful vision Ginny had ever been graced with. "I'll take you to bed."

* * *

There was nothing beautiful in the first phase of the act. However gentle (or slow, or romantic) they might try to be in the implementation, one of them would begin to thrash around (to claw, to draw blood) and in the pulling and/or pushing that followed, both would inevitably be drawn to fall into the chasm. Only after that first exertion of the purely physical could the harried soul of the jaded soldier, whichever of the two for that night would be (they were rarely out to battles simultaneously), be calm enough to let the girl inside out. Barely of age and they had to undertake burdens that would have weighed down wizards and witches, no - women and men, twice their age. But was this not the path they had chosen for themselves?

Wars turn strangers into friends and friends into strangers. Did that mean that she would not have loved Pansy had it not been for the war? Should she be the slightest bit grateful (or perhaps, angry) for the blood that had been spilled because it gave her the chance to hold this beautiful, beautiful woman in her arms? "I love you," Ginny whispered softly as she looked down at Pansy. Trapped between her arms, between her body and the hard bed, Pansy could not have looked freer than she did at that moment.

Pansy smiled beatifically and surged up to press her lips once more to Ginny. She pushed and prodded, licked and caressed, plunged and pulled back, nipped and bit - a combination of so many sensations that Ginny began to see stars behind her eyelids.

Ginny would never tell (or perhaps she would, if Pansy were a very, very good girl), but she lived for this moment. She loved Pansy when she was in the throes of passion, when she was in the grips of sorrow, when she was angry, when she was a lot of things. But reduced to her very core – when it was nothing like Pansy and Ginny, or Ginny and Pansy, when it was just their two hearts beating in sync, when their blood rushed to all the places left usually untouched, when nothing else of the outside world stood to mar whatever was left as their own - moments like this made her wish the War would go on forever, that reality could just move on without the two of them, that the sky would just split open, but just let them be frozen in this moment.

* * *

The end of the War was anticlimactic. It came down to Harry versus Voldemort. As always. Perhaps all the battles they had gone through were simply warm-up sessions for the main characters. It certainly felt that way. Whatever it was, however it was, to know that these months had ended, to know that they could (tentatively) return to normal life (whatever that meant) - was somewhat scary. Where did they all stand now? What about Pansy and her? What about Hermione and Fleur? What about everyone else?

Déjà vu, she thought as she paused in the doorway (just like she had for so many nights ever since their first). Pansy's familiar silhouette against the fluttering, ragged curtains was (surprisingly) reassuring. She realised with a twinge of guilt that a small part of her had expected the two of them to be halves of a wartime fling, that the end of the War should see the two of them parting ways. By the clammy feeling in her hands, that small part of her was beginning to succeed in persuading the rest of her.

Her family and friends had tolerated their 'relationship' because they had been in the War, because (like Ron had said one night after too much or too little of Firewhiskey) 'abnormal had become normal and normal had become abnormal.' She knew Ron should be the last person to be paid attention to. These last few months he had spent swaggering around with bottles in both his hands, coming onto everything that moved on two legs - he was so far gone that even Harry left him alone most of the time.

"Ginny," came Pansy's voice, and it sounded clear (clean) for the first time.

Ginny realised too late that the scent of tobacco she had come to associate with Pansy was missing. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice shaky as she looked up.

Pansy was still standing against the window, but her gaze was fixed firmly at something outside, beyond the window. The familiar cigarette was missing from the grip of her fingers. "It's over, Ginny," she whispered.

It had been a full day and more since the War had been officially declared over. But Ginny understood the disbelief in Pansy's voice. "It's over," she murmured reassuringly. She had yet to cross over the threshold. She had never found it so hard to do such a simple thing as to lift one foot.

"My parents -" Pansy's voice broke and she shook her head vigorously. "Are they -"

"They're headed for Azkaban," Ginny filled in awkwardly. She clenched her hands into fists. They had talked before. It was not all physical between them. But Pansy's family was the one thing they had agreed mutually not to touch upon.

"Oh," Pansy said. There was a disturbing hollow quality to her tone. "I suppose I should've expected that." She fell quiet once more. "What am I going to do, Ginny?" she asked softly (lost).

Ginny moved forward before she could stop herself. She turned Pansy around and moved her hands to cup Pansy's cheeks, stopping her tears midway and pressing hard into cheekbones that had grown more pronounced lately. "I -" she began to say. Why was it so hard to say what she needed to say?

"You need to go," Pansy hissed, even as her hands covered Ginny's. "You've got somewhere to go back to. Go home, Ginny."

She was right. Her family remained fortunately intact - physically, if not mentally. But that was enough. "Comewithme," Ginny announced before she had actually begun to think it through.

"Sorry?"

"C-come with me."

"Don't be foolish."

"I'm serious, Pansy."

Pansy snorted. "What are you going to say to your parents? I'm a Parkinson, Ginny. Old scars don't disappear, you know." Her hand moved to cover a section of her arm - where the mark would remain to brand her a Death Eater. For life.

"Yeah, I know. But - but -" she hurried before Pansy could interrupt. "I don't care about all of that. I love you. Scars and cuts and wounds and everything. My parents - well, they'd be angry but that doesn't matter. The boys can go to hell for all I care. Home won't be home without you." She was stunned into silence by the truth in that spur-of-the-moment declaration. Perhaps it was the absence of tobacco and blood in the air, but for the first time, she could think straight. There was no rush in her thoughts in regards to Pansy. There was no fear that one of them would be gone come morning. They were both alive. They had survived the War. She paused to take a breath and continued gently, smiling slowly as she caressed Pansy's jaw line, "Let me take you home."

Pansy looked at Ginny as if she had gone bonkers for a full second before a small smile emerged. Pushing forward with a shyness Ginny had never seen her display, she pressed her lips against Ginny's. "Take me home," Pansy whispered huskily, her eyes closed as she pulled a hair's breadth away.

"I'll take you home," Ginny replied, before she moved in for another kiss.

Home could wait for a few more hours.


End file.
